CHAPTER X

Vanish every idle thought,

Perish, last of Folly's ways!

All that pride of eye hath sought,

All that rebel flesh hath wrought,

Utterly reduced to naught,

How can ye outlive these days?

X.

That was how his mother found him when she came in search of him.

The lunch-gong had brought no Mark; and no one had seen him, except

Maurice, who, from his window, had caught sight of the lovers

entering the wood. All the morning she had been secretly anxious.

Now she felt certain something was wrong, and telling the others not

to wait, she fled out to his favourite haunt, hardly knowing what she

expected to find.

He did not hear her till she set foot in the summer-house; and the

wild idea smote him--Could it be Bel?

With a start he looked up; and at sight of his face Lady Forsyth's

heart stood still.

"My darling Boy, what _has_ happened?"

Mark frowned and straightened his shoulders. "She's chucked

me--that's all," he said in a dazed voice. "They've poisoned her

point of view between them." His eyes challenged hers. "Mother,

you've been right all along. I suppose--you even foresaw--this!"

"Dear, indeed I didn't." Her hand closed on the rough woodwork. She

so longed to gather him to her heart. "I was anxious--a little. But

I hoped better things of her."

"So did I. We were a pair of fools, it seems. And there's an end of

_that_." With a gesture he dismissed the subject, and added, almost

in his normal voice, "What about the meeting? Any luck?"

"Yes. People are quite keen. But--you'll hardly feel like speaking."

"Oh, I'll speak all right. The King's affairs come a long way first.

I've had enough of false perspectives this morning. I'll probably

speak all the better for having--flung in everything." He sighed.

"Give me to-morrow, Mums, to pull myself together, and I'll do any

mortal thing that's required of me. But I can't show up yet--you

understand? And it's you that must do the telling--as before!"

A spasm of pain crossed his face and she passed a hand over his hair.

He drew back sharply. "Oh--not that," he murmured; then checked

himself and tried to smile. "Sorry. I'm feeling--all raw, Mother.

I can't be civil even to you." He could not tell her why the feel of

a woman's hand on his hair was unendurable, and would be, for some

time to come.

"I understand, dear," she said, and turned to go. "Shall I send

anything to the studio?"

He shook his head. "Later on, perhaps. Dinner time. You might come

up yourself."

"Of course I will."

And so she left him.

Lunch was nearly over when she got back. They had kept some hot for

her; but she hardly touched it.

Briefly, without comment, she told them her news: and escaped with

Keith into the study. To him she could speak more freely. He loved

Mark like a brother; a good deal more, indeed, than the average

brother: and she knew--though neither had spoken of it--that he had

shared her distrust of Bel.

But her thoughts and her words were of Mark only as she stood beside

the man who so intimately shared their lives, her small hand clenched

upon the edge of the high mantelshelf; tears in her eyes; but none in

her voice.

"He faces trouble so exactly like his father," she said, when she had

told him of Mark's refusal to postpone the meeting. "But Richard's

phlegm went deeper. Mark, underneath, has all my terrible

sensibility; though he won't let me see it except accidentally."

Keith said nothing. He was not given to superfluous comment; and on

the whole she found his silences more satisfactory than other

people's talk. He knew she was more or less thinking aloud. She was

not even looking at him, but at a full-length photograph of her

husband--a powerful figure of a man.

"It's so strange," she went on in the same subdued tone. "I

sometimes see Richard's very self looking at me out of Mark's eyes.

When the look comes I seem actually to feel him there. Twice this

morning I've seen it. Once when Mark spoke of war and again when he

spoke of--that wretched girl. Oh Keith--I hate her!"

The low voice broke unmistakably; and she bowed her forehead on the

back of her hand.

Macnair stood looking at her, his keen eyes clouded with tenderness.

A moment he seemed to hesitate, then deliberately, he laid his hand

on her shoulder. "Helen, don't break your heart over it," he said.

"We men pull through these things: and Mark is made of sterner stuff,

if I know him, than to let a girl like Miss Alison smash him up for

good. More likely to do that by marrying him than by leaving him.

There's a crumb of consolation for you!"

She raised her head now and smiled at him through tears that were not

allowed to fall.

"If there is such a crumb anywhere, trust you to find it! What a

blessing you are to us, Keith!" As his hand slipped from her

shoulder she caught and held it a minute. Then her thoughts went

back to her son. "I wonder--will he ever have eyes for Sheila again,

after this?"

"More likely after this than before. Sheila's a born mother-woman, a

little Sister of Compassion. And we men are such fools, that we're

very apt to overlook the beauty of that type till we've suffered a

few hard knocks from the other sort. The revulsion from that type,

when it comes, is curiously complete. But it takes time. As for our

Sheila, whether she would have him, after this, is another matter."

Helen sighed. "I can't forgive Maurice yet," she said. "I wonder if

he'll enlist?" And their talk slid back to the one all-absorbing

subject--the War.

As for Mark, he spent that interminable afternoon tramping endlessly,

aimlessly over the hills; hoping by the mechanical motion to deaden

thought and ease the pain within. Where all memory was intolerable,

it hurt him most to recall how cruelly she had tempted him by tone

and touch; as it were bribing him to be false to his own convictions.

The whole thing bewildered almost as much as it hurt him. There were

moments when he came near to hating her; proof, though he did not

realise it, that the love she evoked was strongly tinctured with

baser metal.

And all the while Bobs, the incurably faithful, trotted to heel or

gambolled coquettishly under his master's eyes without eliciting a

word or caress.

Hunger and lengthening shadows drew him back at last to the home he

loved yet now acutely desired to avoid. She had poisoned even that.

Yet how his heart ached for her! How the unregenerate blood in his

veins craved the touch of her lips and hands.

He reached his study without encountering anything more human than a

stray housemaid; and there the first thing he lighted on was his own

tender and beautiful little Study of Contemplation. Standing just

inside the door, he feasted his eyes on the soft, still face, the

small head with its close-fitting cap of hair and the long-limbed

grace of her figure. Then rage flamed in him. He felt like smashing

the thing with a hammer and flinging away the pieces as he had flung

away her ring. A mere pulse-beat of hesitation saved him and the

artist prevailed over the man. He could not murder the work of his

hands. Later on, he would give it to Maurice to wean him from the

sin of impressionism. Meanwhile, he lifted it as tenderly as he

would have touched the original, put it away in a corner cupboard and

turned the key.

He had scarcely done so when he heard his mother outside.

"Open the door, dear," she said. "My hands are full."

He opened it and relieved her of a tray set out with appetising food

and wine.

"Stunning of you, Mums," he said. "I'm hungry."

To her delight he ate everything and drank three glasses of wine,

while they discussed ways and means; the money they could realise,

the men they could raise for England in this most critical hour of

her destiny. Except for the absence of laughter and badinage in

their talk, it was as if nothing abnormal had happened. But Lady

Forsyth did not fail to note the disappearance of his terra-cotta

treasure; and she was sinful enough to hope it had been destroyed.

She stayed more than half an hour and left him with a fervent "God

bless you!" But this time she attempted no caress. She understood.

Next morning, after breakfast, she lingered in her turret-room,

wondering what he would do with himself, hoping he would come and let

her know. He did come; and her heart ached at the tired look in his

eyes.

"I'm going to take the _Watersprite_ up the loch, Mums," he told her.

"And I'll be away all day. Grant has stocked her well, so I shan't

starve. Don't be an idiot if I'm late and go imagining I've drowned

myself. At a time like this, a man's life is not his own to chuck

away. Besides, I'm not the sort. And--there happens to be you," he

added with a travesty of a smile. "On the whole I'd sooner have the

honour of being shot by the Germans----"

"Mark--don't!" She drew in a sharp breath.

"Sorry, Mums. But it's true. By the way, as I'm wasting some

valuable time hadn't we better stay over Sunday?"

"That would make things easier," she admitted. "But I thought--you'd

rather get away soon."

"My dear Mother, don't fash yourself with fancies. If it'll ease

things, we'll jolly well stay. _I_ don't care a damn."

The spark of irritation was purely refreshing: and he never

apologised to her for "language" accidental or otherwise. So

complete was the comrade spirit between them that he prided himself

on his habit of speaking to her straightly as man to man. More than

once, in University days, he had filled some prospective visitor with

envy by the casual remark: "Don't be alarmed if you hear me scrapping

with my mother. She's the right sort. I can talk to her just

exactly as I talk to you."

Now, in answer to his outburst, she said quietly: "Very well, Monday.

I'll tell the others."

"That's all right. And don't you be a fool about me!"

So he left her and she did her best to obey him; but the faint

consolation that his trouble brought him nearer to herself was

obliterated by her acute consciousness of his hidden pain and

resentment against the cause of it.

That grey, weary Thursday seemed as if it would never pass. Clouds

had rolled up out of the west. Scudding showers lashed the loch; and

through them she could picture Mark driving the little steam-yacht he

loved. Long after sunset he came back wet to the skin; but looking,

on the whole, more like himself. He had fought and conquered

something out there in the rain and wind. But he spent what remained

of the evening in his studio as before.

On Friday evening, when they were gathered in the square hall waiting

to start, he strode casually downstairs and nodded his greetings as

if he had merely been away for a couple of nights. He had prepared a

speech, he said, that ought to make the men of Ardmuir sit up to some

purpose: and Keith, watching the little incident from the study

threshold, murmured: "Well done, old boy!"

A second car had been ordered to accommodate the party; and while

they made ready, Mark was left momentarily alone with Sheila in the

hall.

Then she took courage and looked up at him.

"Mark--I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I may say that much, mayn't I?"

For a second he held her gaze. Then: "You may say anything you

please," he answered, "when you look like that! Truth is," he

paused, "she's never been taught to see things the right way. It was

just--that one couldn't make her understand."

"Poor Bel! She must be very unhappy."

"Bel--unhappy!" His astonishment was manifest. But then--Sheila had

not seen the look in her eyes. "I doubt it," he added with a touch

of bitterness.

"_I_ don't," the soft voice persisted. "She's bound to be--if she

cares."

"But if she cared, how _could_ she----?"

The note of pain in his voice gave her still more courage.

"You said--she didn't understand, and that poisons everything."

Touched to the heart he said impulsively, "Sheila, what a wise little

Mouse you are!"

It was his old nickname for her and she drew in a quick breath. "Not

so very! But I do know--about caring."

"The first best knowledge surely," he said: then Keith appeared and

bade them hurry up.

But her eyes, shining on him through tears, and her words that gave

him a new point of view lingered in his memory. Odd how readily he

could speak of Bel to Sheila, how hardly to his mother, with whom he

could talk of everything in earth or heaven. And surely no one but

Sheila could have been inspired to couple sympathy for himself with

so tender and delicate a plea for Bel. If she were right, if Bel

were really suffering, the door of hope might still be ajar.

Meantime there was his speech; for which he had made comprehensive

notes; there were convictions and appeals that he must drive home to

the hearts of his hearers; and while he sat smoking in silence beside

Keith--who drove the car--words full of vigour and fire came crowding

into his brain----

When at length he stood on the platform waiting for his clamorous

welcome to subside, the flame of his conviction burnt away all

nervousness, all dread of failure; and for half an hour he spoke as

none had imagined he could speak, himself least of all.

"First rate," Keith said quietly as he sat down amid a storm of

cheers.

"Heaven knows how I did it!" he answered under cover of the noise.

"Wish I could bolt now."

But the Provost had risen and was praising him to his face; a far

worse ordeal than the one he had so triumphantly weathered. The

recruiting result, in figures, was not sensational: but Ardmuir was

obviously impressed. It begged leave to distribute Sir Mark's "great

recruiting speech" as a leaflet; and Sir Mark, privately overwhelmed,

gave gracious consent, with the air of one who made brilliant

speeches as easily as he ate his breakfast.

"Really, old boy, you ought to stand for Parliament," Keith said as

they drove home. "If that speech of yours is well distributed, the

men will soon be tumbling in. One has to give them time up here.

The Radical spirit is so strong in our beloved country."

"And the beauty of it is that the bulk of 'em, if they only knew it,

remain Radicals just _because_ they're so conservative!" Mark

retorted with a flash of his mother's humour. "But Parliament--no

thanks; not yet awhile."

Saturday was given over to rounding up his own men and business

connected with his mother's small estate. That evening he conquered,

not without difficulty, a temptation to stroll down into the village

and discover whether The Rowans was yet empty of its treasure; and

when the last post came in he knew.

Glancing through half a dozen envelopes, he came suddenly on Bel's

handwriting. His mother, who was watching him, saw, without

appearing to see, that he pocketed all his letters unopened and,

after a reasonable interval, rose and left the room. It was easy to

guess what had happened; and she rated herself for the horrid sinking

at her heart. She could not sleep till she knew: but as Mark did not

reappear, she went up early and, in passing, knocked at his door.

"Good night, dear," she said.

He opened it and stood before her--transfigured.

"Come along in, Mums." Drawing her forward he closed the door behind

her. "Read that!"

He thrust a faintly scented sheet of note-paper into her hand, and

she obeyed.

Bel's communication was brief, moving, and very much to the point.

"Are you generous enough to forgive me--and come to me?" she wrote

without preamble. "If you can keep it up--_I can't_. I saw and

heard you at Ardmuir. You are _brave_. As for me, I'm bitterly

sorry and ashamed. I hate it all still. But if you wish it, I am

yours--unconditionally, BEL. I shall be alone here after 10.30. I

can't face Inveraig."

Lady Forsyth had to read that note more than once before she could

feel sure of her voice. To her it seemed studied, consciously

written for effect: and the writing itself was equally studied, with

the same touch of hardness in it that showed in the level line of

eyelids and brows.

"Well?" Mark was growing impatient.

"You can forgive her?" she asked, looking steadily up at him.

"Of course I can. And you must too. She's sorry. She--cares.

Isn't that enough for any one?"

"But she's not convinced."

"_I'll_ convince her, in time. I hope she'll come south with us

to-morrow."

Lady Forsyth drew in her lips and at once his hands came down on her

shoulders.

"Look here, Mums, I won't have you antagonising and doubting her any

more--after this. It spoils everything. You might make an effort if

only for my sake. It's beyond belief getting her back; and your

attitude's the only flaw in my happiness. Has been all along."

She was silent a minute, then she put her two hands on his breast.

"Dear, I will make an effort for your sake. I refuse to be the flaw

in your happiness! It's a degrading position for a mother."

He stooped and kissed her for the first time since Wednesday morning.

"Bless you!" he said. "Good night."

Alone in her room, confronting this new, unwelcome development, she

realised how, through all the pain of his grief, she had been upheld

by the secret conviction that his loss was gain; some day he would

know it. Now the old miserable uncertainty was nagging at her

afresh. In her heart, she distrusted the sincerity of the whole

incident. But she had given her word to Mark, and Bel should have

the benefit of all the doubts in creation.

Mark's watch was three minutes short of the half-hour when he stood

outside the square grey house perched on the hillside above the road.

A white curtain fluttered; and a glimpse of Bel's face signified that

the coast was clear.

When he entered the homely sitting-room and closed the door she did

not run to meet him as a simpler woman would have done. She remained

standing near the mantelpiece on the farther side of the square

table, smiling her cool provocative smile.

"Mark!" she said softly. "I've been wondering and wondering would

you really come?"

By that time the square table was no longer between them and Mark was

holding her as if he could never let her go.

"Would you have broken your heart, if I hadn't?" he asked at last.

"Very nearly!" she admitted, with the slowest possible lift of her

lashes.

"But, Bel--if you cared, how could you pull it through? How could

you look at me with your eyes like bits of glass?"

"You forget," she said, "I can act. It was because--I cared so much;

because I couldn't bear the idea of your taking part in that horror

out there; and because you were so obstinate, that in the end I put

on the strongest screw I could think of--and it wasn't so strong as I

supposed. That's the inner history of the last three days."

He regarded her searchingly, taking it all in. "Women are queer

things," he said. "Did you really suppose I'd capitulate--under the

screw?"

"I half hoped so--till I heard your speech. Then I began to see that

I'd never known the real Mark: only Bel's lover."

"And--did you approve of the real Mark?"

She laughed and kissed him.

"Honestly, I found him rather alarming. Too big altogether for a

mere Bel. But I wanted him more than ever. And now I know he's

still mine, I can't let him go!"

For Mark there was only one flaw in those first raptures of reunion:

and for that flaw his mother was unwittingly responsible. Nothing

would induce Bel to come up to Inveraig or to travel south with the

Forsyths on Monday.

"I can't face them yet awhile," she persisted, "specially your

Mother. She won't easily forgive me for hurting you so. No real

mother could. Besides, she was probably thanking her stars for your

escape; and now I've turned up again, like a bad penny!"

"Bel!"

But she laid her hand upon his lips.

"Hush and listen to me. It wouldn't be fair on Harry either;

stranding her with those two. In ten days, we can both come south

and a regenerate Bel can dare to pay you a visit. Their minds will

be full of such big terrible things by then that they'll take me for

granted. As for you--the real Mark will be so swamped with his

responsibilities that there would be no time for love-making, even if

I came."

In the end he was forced to admit that she was right. Three days of

fighting himself had not been without a steadying effect on his

impatient spirit: and so the matter was settled.

Rain and wind had ceased. They spent all the afternoon and evening

together on the water; and on Monday the Forsyth party travelled down

to Wynchcombe Friars.

At no time could Lady Forsyth leave Inveraig without a pang: and

never had it been sharper than on that 10th of August with the glory

and anguish of Belgium's gallant stand beating on her brain, and the

poignant question at her heart--when, and in what circumstances,

would they four see that grey rugged house and the lochs and hills of

Scotland again?

BOOK II

THE UTTER PRICE

CHAPTER I

In my heart there burns a flame;

But no smoke shows;

And no one knows.

_Japanese Song._

Wynchcombe Friars was a singularly perfect relic of the Tudor period.

It rambled, it blossomed into irrelevant gables, it took you to its

heart. The lordly spaciousness of an eighteenth-century mansion

seemed dull and featureless, by contrast with its individuality, its

friendly charm. And of all its beautiful old rooms was none more

individual than Mark's studio, with its oak-pannelled walls, deep

window-seats and leaded casements that opened upon the sea of pine

tops he had described to Bel. For him and his mother, it was the

soul of the house; and in nothing was their intimacy more evident

than in the fact that this, his holy of holies, was hers also. A

certain square bay-window that caught the last of the sun upon the

pines held her armchair of dull blue brocade, her book-case and elbow

table. Blue prevailed also in the window-seats, the casement

curtains and the Turkish rugs on the polished floor.

The studio itself contained little beyond Mark's paraphernalia, his

writing-table and a few pieces of priceless old furniture. The

spirit of Michael Angelo pervaded the place:--models of his statues

and groups, sepia studies by Mark from the great friezes; and a

portrait of the Florentine's rugged head occupied the place of honour

above the mantelpiece. The blue-tiled fireplace beneath was flanked

by Mark's first two essays in statuary: symbolic figures of Triumph

and Defeat. Triumph, a splendid nude, stood poised upon a rock; arms

uplifted, head flung back. Defeat, a fallen Lucifer, still sullenly

defiant, leaned upon his battered sword; a figure of sombre strength.

The Viking, who accompanied Mark on his moves, was set in a dark oak

niche that served for frame and threw him into strong relief.

Still, beneath all the beauty and friendliness of the room, there

lurked the same unobtrusively ascetic note that had been more marked

in the simpler studio at Inveraig.

So at least thought Maurice Lenox, who lounged smoking in an

armchair, wondering, secretly, how Mark could bring himself to leave

it all, patriotism or no. He, personally, had found it quite enough

of a wrench to shut up his modest rooms in Chelsea--till when? God,

or the devil, alone could tell.

He had gone straight from Inveraig to his home in Surrey, wondering

what possible use there could be for such as he in this terrible

_galère_:--he, who had small knowledge of firearms and so heartily

detested taking life that he could not even find pleasure in fishing.

Mark had suggested enlisting in the Artists' Rifles: a suggestion

since confirmed by Sir Eldred Lenox, with a blunt admonition to look

sharp about it. Sir Nevil Sinclair, of Bramleigh Beeches, commanded

them. He would send the boy's name up for a commission the moment he

was reasonably fit for it: and on the whole Maurice found it a relief

to have the question of choice taken out of his hands. He had

stipulated for a few days of his promised visit to Wynchcombe Friars,

before taking the plunge; and those few days--with Macnair for the

only other guest had laid the foundation of a genuine friendship with

Forsyth, whose finer qualities shone out notably in this hour of

crisis.

Whereas at Inveraig he had at times seemed selfish and a trifle

dictatorial, here, as responsible land-owner, his mastery and force

of character showed in a new light. And as for selfishness--his

whole mind seemed set upon the welfare of his people and his place in

the coming time of stress. Now, at the very moment when he was most

needed, and most longed to be on the spot, he was cheerfully and

actively engaged in transferring the reins of government into other

hands. To Maurice--a man of random moods and many points of

view--such strength and singleness of purpose seemed enviable as it

was admirable; and the fact that Forsyth had remained unshaken even

by Miss Alison's defection had made a deep impression on the lighter

nature of his friend. Since then, he had learnt a good deal more,

not only of Sir Mark in a fresh manifestation, but of England's

greatest asset--sadly misprized in a democratic age--the hereditary

lords of the land.

To-day his brief respite was over.

At the moment, he and Mark had effected their escape from the

infliction of war-talk, as perpetrated by Mrs. Melrose and the

Vicar's wife, at the tea-table on the terrace. Sir Mark's sudden

engagement, by the way, had been a severe shock to Mrs. Melrose, who

suspected that Sheila must have played her cards remarkably ill. But

that, after all, was how one might expect her to play cards of any

worldly value. She was her Melrose grandmother all over. Not a drop

of Burlton blood in her veins. But the war had dwarfed that personal

disappointment: and the good lady was brimming with benevolent

schemes for herself and the whole neighbourhood.

Meantime the Vicar's wife held the field. Having come in quest of a

subscription, she had stayed to murmur decorous and very premature

lamentations over the undesirable features of billeting and of the

Territorial camps: the sort of thing that reduced Lady Forsyth to

speechless exasperation. Mark, divided between sympathy and

amusement, had watched her holding herself in, till the assertive

voice of Mrs. Melrose created a diversion and dubious murmurs were

drowned in a flood of propositions for the local housing of Belgians

and the conversion of Wendover Court into a luxurious hospital for

officers.

"You, Lady Forsyth, with this heavenly place, ought to specialise on

convalescents or nerve-cases"--Mrs. Melrose dearly loved making other

people's plans--"If we all take a _distinctive_ line, there'll be no

muddle or overlapping. And of course dear little Lady Sinclair will

devote herself to the Indians--when they come."

Privately Helen reflected that if her neighbours continued so to

afflict her, the first nerve-case for Wynchcombe Friars would be its

own mistress.

It was at this point that Mark had given up waiting for the

Sinclairs. Not even the presence of Sheila--who had come over with

her mother and was staying on to discuss "War plans"--could detain

him, once Mrs. Melrose held the field. Basely deserting Lady Forsyth

he left word that Sir Nevil, if he should turn up, would be very

welcome in the studio.

Now, while Maurice lounged and reflected, he sat at his littered

writing-table, a pipe between his teeth, two deep furrows in his

forehead. Beyond that littered table the room held no other signs of

work. Easel and modelling pedestal stood empty. A woeful tidiness

prevailed, and Mark himself looked older, Maurice thought. Small

wonder, seeing all that he must forgo at a stroke when his name

appeared in the _Gazette_.

So, throughout Great Britain, in the same casual unemotional fashion,

men of every grade were making the supreme sacrifice, cheerfully

putting behind them all that made life worth living--possessions,

talents, hardly earned distinction, cherished hopes and still more

cherished homes. No doubt many of them, like Maurice, privately

rebelled; but they, too, were carried forward by the infection of

brave example, if by no higher motive. In Mark's company, Maurice

had felt that infection strongly: but on this his last evening of

freedom the artist in him raged afresh against the hideousness and

waste and cruelty of modern war.

For ten minutes Mark had been smoking steadily and silently. He had

a difficult letter on his mind. Maurice, who had the horrors of

Tirlemont on his nerves, felt suddenly impelled to more candid speech

than he had hitherto indulged in, lest he be misjudged.

"I don't know what your private feelings are, Forsyth," he plunged

boldly; and Mark started as if he had been waked from a dream. "But

the more I look at this business of enlisting and going out to

slaughter Germans--not to mention the chance of their returning the

compliment--the more heartily I hate the whole thing. It's nothing

so simple as mere funk. And it's not that I'm shirking--you

understand."

"Oh, yes. I understand," Mark rejoined, setting his teeth on the

stem of his pipe.

But he did not seem disposed to enlarge on his understanding of his

private feelings; and Maurice, whose mixed emotions were clamouring

for expression, went on: "Mere funk would at least give one something

to tackle and overcome. It's this cursed inferno going on inside

one's head that does the damage. And the beastly thing seems quite

independent of one's thoughts or attention. Just keeps on

automatically at the back of my brain. Even when I'm reading or

talking, I can hear those infernal guns and shells. I can see the

mangled fragments that once were men--the wounds--the blood--the

slopes of the Liége forts----"

"Damn you! Shut _up_!" Mark leaned forward suddenly, a spark of

anger in his eyes. "D'you suppose you're the only one that's plagued

with an imagination?"

Maurice sighed.

"Sorry, old chap," he said, disappointed, but contrite. "It's a

relief all the same. And I thought--you understood----"

"Of course I do: a long sight too well." Mark's tone was gentler

now. "If it's relief you're after, you'll get that most effectively

by going out yourself; seeing things with your actual eyes: doing

things with your actual hands that'll give you no time for

cinematographs in your head. You can thank your stars you're a man.

It's the women given that way who'll have the devil's own time of it.

My mother's one, worse luck; and it'll come hard on her--when I'm

gone."

Maurice ventured no comment on a subject so poignantly intimate as

Lady Forsyth's anxiety for her one remaining son; nor did Mark seem

to expect any. He took a few pulls at his pipe, then reverted to

generalities.

"Don't write me down an unfeeling brute, Maurice," he said with his

friendly smile. "War's the roughest game on earth and we've got to

be a bit rough with ourselves if we're to play it to any purpose.

I'm horribly well aware that the 'sorrowful great gift of

imagination' is the very deuce on these occasions. A shade less of

it in us, who have to do the killing, and a shade more of it in our

Westminster Olympians--who have to do the foreseeing and

forestalling--would be a pleasanter business for ourselves and a

better look-out for the country. They're an agile crew with their

tongues; and if words were bullets, we might be in Berlin the week

after next! Personally, I'd like to see most of 'em scrapped 'for

the duration of the war.' Kitchener paramount, with a picked

Council, would pull us through in half the time. But that's not my

business nor yours. It's for us to play up all we can; thank God for

one real Man, and not waste our precious energies in grumbling.

There's a sermon for you. And you brought it on yourself!"

Maurice rose, flung away his cigarette end, and strolled down the

length of the room and back.

"It's done me a power of good being here," he said, coming to a

standstill by the mantelpiece and contemplating Mark's "Triumph."

"You're a man as well as an artist, Forsyth; and the bulk of us are

not; I, personally, am cursed with too much of Uncle Michael in my

composition."

Mark laughed.

"Confound your Uncle Michael! You run along and enlist and kill

every German you can lay hands to and your composition will take care

of itself. A wee bit stiffening's all you want; and a wee bit taste

of red-hot reality will put some backbone into your studio-bred art,

that ennobles nothing and nobody and doesn't even want to make itself

understood. It's just on the cards that this war--when we're through

with it--may give us an altogether saner and more robust revival of

art that will spring naturally from a more robust conception of life:

an art that will genuinely reflect the spirit of the age, as Michael

Angelo reflects the Renaissance. Our present age of machinery and

money-getting has precious little spirit to reflect. No collective

convictions. Practically no faith, except in success. Consequently

life has no vital use for art: and we're ousted by the cinematograph.

A few, like myself and Sinclair, still hang on to beauty and the

classics. The rest, like the bulk of your advanced friends, say

'Ugliness, be thou my beauty' and proceed to make a little hell of

their own in the Grafton Galleries! Just at present, Maurice, the

mere artist is the most superfluous creature on God's earth...."

He suddenly laughed and checked himself. "Off on my hobby-horse

again! Why the deuce don't you chuck a book at me, old chap? Too

much spouting at these recruiting shows will make me an infliction to

my friends. Ah--there goes Mrs. Melrose! Joy for Mother! Likewise

the devout Mrs. Clutterbuck, who thinks to advertise her own virtue

by maligning better folk than herself. Come on down. We'll get the

tail-end of tea and the poor dears will need cheering up."

They found the poor dears in very fair spirits--considering. Helen

was delighted at recapturing Sheila; and the girl herself made no

secret of her distaste for the restless superficial activities of her

own home. A telegram from Sir Nevil Sinclair explained his

non-appearance and begged Mark not to fail him at the Bramleigh

meeting next day. Then, tea being removed and the others dispersed,

Mark found himself alone with Sheila, whom he had scarcely seen since

the day of Bel's regeneration.

"It's good to get you back again, Mouse," he said, with brotherly

directness: and as she merely smiled without looking up, he allowed

his eyes to linger on her face. "But I'm not sure I approve of the

massage plan, specially if it means careering off to France with Miss

Videlle."

Sheila hesitated. "I thought--if you married--there might be Bel.

But if Mums really needs me, I'd leave anything, anyone ... for her.

She knows that." The girl's voice throbbed with feeling and a faint

colour showed in her cheeks. "I'm very doubtful, though, whether she

could or would stay here long--without you."

Mark started and frowned.

"She must! She'll be safe here; and there's no end of useful work

for her on the spot. All the same--" he paused, looking deep into

the heart of the wood, at pine stems rosy with shafts of light. "I

believe you know best. She won't stop. She'd break her heart. War

comes cruel hard on the women."

Sheila said nothing: but the set of her lips showed a faint line of

strain that he had not noticed before. "Come for a quarter-deck

prowl with me, Mouse," he said.

They paced the wide-flagged terrace, veined with moss, till near

dinner-time; and only at the last did Mark speak the thought

uppermost in his mind. They had reached the far end when he came to

a standstill and faced her squarely.

"Sheila--it goes against the grain asking favours for Bel, even of

you and Mother; but you were such a brick before; and now--it's a bit

of an ordeal for her facing you all after--what happened up there.

Otherwise she'd have been here sooner. Of course I'll make her speak

to Mums straight away, which may clear the air, between them. But I

want you all to be ever so kind and not let her feel a shadow of

awkwardness. Just pick up the threads again as if nothing had

happened. Will you--for my sake?"

Sheila was leaning now against the balustrade, her hands pressed palm

downwards on the stone work.

"Yes, Mark," she said in an odd, contained voice, "I'll do anything I

can for your sake. But in my heart--" she suddenly looked up at him

with her clear honest eyes, "I can't forgive her--ever!"

"_You_?" His surprise brought the blood to her cheeks. "But when it

happened you were so--understanding. It was you who took the edge

off my bitterness."

"Because then--I didn't understand," Sheila explained with

difficulty. "I thought she had really lost you through her own

blindness; and--I was sorry for her. But afterwards, one couldn't

help suspecting it was all ... that perhaps she was simply ...

putting on the screw."

"She admitted as much," he said, looking away across the rose garden.

"Mark! How _could_ she?" Her low tone vibrated like a smitten

harp-string.

"That's the mystery to a masculine brain. It hurt--considerably.

But it seems women do these things."

Sheila checked a natural impulse to repudiate the sweeping assertion.

She saw him deliberately erecting a screen for Bel, at the expense of

others; but she had already been candid enough, and she would not

permit herself to insinuate disparagement.

Her enigmatical silence urged Mark to add: "Bel's had her share of

unhappiness, anyhow. She didn't enjoy those three days much more

than I did and she's lost more than a week down here. So just be

good to her, you deceptive little bit of adamant--and bless you from

my heart."

"That's bribery!" Sheila said laughing, and straightening her

shoulders. "I don't take payment for my services. But it's time to

go and dress for dinner!"

As they strolled back to the house she caught herself reflecting

quite philosophically on the impunity with which the Bels of this

world may steal horses, while their less privileged sisters dare not

cast a glance over the hedge.

But in spite of her excuse about dressing for dinner, she seemed in

no such hurry after all. A sudden longing came over her to see the

studio, to sit alone for a few minutes in that shrine of blessed

memories: and, having seen Mark safely vanish into his bedroom, she

made bold to venture in.

Sinking into Lady Forsyth's armchair, she let the crowding memories

sweep through her brain, while her eyes ranged from picture to

picture, from statue to statue, as it were learning them by heart,

because in future the right of entry she so prized would belong to

another. For her, Mark and his art were one and indivisible; and, by

an unerring instinct, she dreaded the effect of Bel's demoralising

influence on both.

Dearly she loved the virile figure of Triumph; more dearly still, the

Viking. Him, she saw and felt as Mark had hoped that Bel might see

and feel him. She had been at Wynchcombe Friars during those

wonderful days when he came to life under Mark's hands; and in her

private heart he stood for the symbol of his creator's unquenchable

spirit.

In all these children of his hand and brain, she found the

quintessence of the man, and it was her instinct to seek the essence

of things.

Mark himself, without and within, was all that she would have a man

be--she, who seemed fated to attract only the "poor things" of earth.

Since Ailsa's death and his return from Europe, she had worshipped

him, with the still intensity of her Northern nature. So felicitous

had been their relation, and she so young, so happy in a home

atmosphere the very antithesis of her own, that no afterthought had

troubled her unclouded content.

For this reason, she had been able to accept, loyally, uncritically,

his sudden and bewildering infatuation for a girl obviously unworthy

of him; an infatuation that could survive even his knowledge of the

motive which had promoted Bel to such unsparing use of her power.

Entirely one with him in spirit, she could not choose but will what

he willed: and conviction that Bel honestly loved him had mitigated

the pain of her own hidden disappointment in him.

But now even that faint consolation was gone: and here, where

associations were more intimate than at Inveraig, the shock to her

belief in him seemed infinitely harder to bear. Here the question

forced itself upon her--how could he, being what he was?

And his fresh appeal on behalf of Bel had badly shaken her innate

capacity for acceptance.

Because of that appeal--which would also be made to the others--this

girl, who had so cruelly tormented him for her own ends, must not be

allowed to suffer a twinge of the discomfort she so richly deserved.

For the first time, Sheila was goaded almost to the point of

rebellion. For the first time her will was at odds with his: and it

hurt more than she chose to admit. From a child she had invented her

own private code of courage that never allowed her to say, "I can't

bear it." And she would not say it now.

She would do what he asked, under protest, because he asked it. Her

attitude, she was convinced, would matter nothing to Bel, who

obviously looked down on her, from the attitude of her twenty-nine

years, with a mild good-humoured contempt. But it would matter

greatly to Mark;--and that sufficed.

She rose at last and wandered round the beloved room. Before the

Viking she stood a long while, trying to draw the valiant soul of him

into her own soul: then she went reluctantly out.

As she closed the door behind her, Mark opened his own and smilingly

confronted her. "Hullo! Is that the way you dress for dinner?"

She coloured a little under his gaze.

"I couldn't resist going in--just to greet them all."

"Well--you might have let me come too! Are they such very special

friends?"

"A part of me--almost," she said very low. "I've known most of

them--haven't I?--ever since they were born."

Then she went quickly down the passage; and for several seconds Mark

stood looking after her. The sudden softening of his whole face,

could she have seen it, would have been balm to her heart.

CHAPTER II

The heavens such grace did lend her

That she might admired be.

SHAKESPEARE.

Next morning early, Mark drove Maurice to the main line station,

despatched him with a final volley of chaff, and proceeded patiently

to tramp the lane outside till the down train should bring him the

desire of his eyes. From the station-master he learnt that "she"

might be anything from twenty minutes to two hours late. Yesterday

five specials had run through, packed with horses and men, and there

would be more to-night.

"Jolly for they Germans, sir!" he added with a jovial wink. "They

_do_ say now that the British Army will be keeping Christmas in

Berlin!"

"And on the other side they say the Kaiser will keep it in London,"

Mark answered him. "Best leave fairy tales to the Germans. It's

their line!"

And he retired to commune with his own heart in the lane.

The train gave him ample time to lose patience and recapture it; and

the longer he waited, the brighter grew the halo round Bel's golden

head. Idealist as he was, in art and life, he could not choose but

idealise the woman he loved: if, indeed, he were not rather in love

with a phantom of his own brain, who wore the appearance and spoke

with the voice of Bel. During the last ten days, while his conscious

mind had been absorbed in things practical, the subconscious,

unoccupied artist in him had been sedulously gilding her halo; and as

for that bewildering jar in Scotland, he had so completely credited

her with his own sensitiveness on the subject, that his one wish was

to make her forget it had ever been. He had shrunk even from asking

her to speak of it to his mother; and had made the request in his

last letter, rather than spring an unpleasantness on her by way of

greeting.

And now--all he craved was herself. Her letters were not the same

thing at all. Clever, affectionate and often amusing, they seemed

just to miss something that, for him, was the secret of her charm.

In them the slightly studied effect of her whole attitude to life

seemed more definitely artificial; and after reading them, a troubled

uncertainty was apt to pervade his mind. But sight and touch of her

would cure all such lover's folly----

Ah--the whistle at last!

He reached the platform as the train drew up, and there emerged from

a distant carriage the tall, unmistakable figure in a bluish coat and

skirt and close-fitting hat. About midway down the platform they met

and clasped hands. She coloured a little when their eyes met; but

they merely talked of luggage and the lateness of the train.

It is a common experience, that first, faint shock of actual meeting

after keen anticipation; and in these two it waked the undersense

that, although they had taken the most hazardous step in life, they

were still comparative strangers. In some vague way they seemed to

have lost touch; to have become suddenly shy of each other--the man

more so than the girl.

Shy or no, she was contented, utterly, to be sitting there beside him

in the August sunlight, speeding between stretches of ripe cornland;

between purple sweeps of heather, when they climbed a ridge; and on

through rolling open country where the earlier trees showed a yellow

leaf or two, and the oaks were still sunset-tinted with their second

blossoming. England, relying serenely upon her grey ghosts of the

North Sea, lay dozing in the high noon of the year, while little

Belgium, like another Kate Barlass, thrust her arm through the staple

that the murderers might be stayed, if only for a moment. A

Territorial Camp, an occasional motor decked with flags, a group of

khaki figures resting in the shade--these were the sole reminders of

that invisible horror across the Channel, that for Bel was no more

than the shadow of a shadow, though the cloud of it overhung her own

life and set visibly upon her lover's brow.

Every now and then she took stock of him under her eyelids, from his

rough motor-cap and his sensitive mouth, safe-guarded by that

uncompromising chin, to the lean, strong fingers controlling the

machine. A woman could safely entrust her destiny to that mouth and

those hands, though she might wish, incidentally, that he would take

a less exaggerated view of this singularly inopportune war. It was

just her luck that it should have been timed to spoil the most

promising "phase" of her life. If only Mark's admirable virility

were tempered by a touch of Rex Maitland's intelligent common sense,

matters would be so much easier and pleasanter all round. And the

coming interview with Lady Forsyth was a nuisance, to put it mildly:

but still----

"Have I given you time to get through the worst of your troublesome

affairs?" she asked after an interchange of commonplaces that led

nowhere. "I'm hoping for a clear field as the reward of my lost

week."

He gave her a contrite glance.

"I wish it were clearer. Russell, my land-agent, has played up like

a Trojan. But the wood seems to thicken as one goes on. And to-day

I'm booked for a recruiting show at Bramleigh. No getting out of it.

Sir Nevil Sinclair--the artist, you know--said I must manage to

placate you somehow. So please be placated and save me the managing!"

Down went the corners of her mouth. "Our first day! And not even

Mr. Lenox to play with."

"Won't Sheila do?"

"As a substitute for _you_? Mark, your modesty is incredible! Is

she with you still?"

"She came back yesterday."

"And Mr. Macnair?"

"Yes."

"Are they part of your permanent family, those two?"

"More or less. People just accrue to Mums. Are you placated

now--Queen of Wynchcombe Friars?"

She laid gloved finger-tips on his knee.

"I'm trying to be. I vowed a vow to be heavenly good this time, to

make up for...."

His hand closed on hers.

"That's over and done with," he said. "I'm sorry--even about Mother.

But it seemed only fair. I'll take you to her straight----"

"I'd prefer half an hour first with her son--not in a motor on the

open road! Darling, give me time to feel more at home."

His eyes sought hers. "I'm agreeable. We'll stop at the gate and go

up through the wood. I can fetch the car afterwards. No superfluous

attendants these days!"

On a cushion of moss in the cool of the pine-wood, they recaptured

the atmosphere of Scotland and the little cloud of estrangement

melted away. Mark, who had keenly felt the momentary jar, was the

more relieved.

"Now, my darling girl, time's up," he said, reluctant, but

inflexible; "Mother will be picturing us wrecked on the road, and

sending poor old Keith to pick up the pieces! Come."

At that, she knelt upright, and, with a charmingly tender air of

proprietorship, passed her hands over his head, bringing them to rest

on his shoulders. "I'm glad I've found you again," she said. "That

strange man at the station rather alarmed me."

"You knew how to conjure him away, you witch!" he answered, stopping

her lips with a kiss.

She accepted the kiss, but not his tacit dismissal of the subject.

For her, a new sensation not analysed was a sensation wasted.

"I suppose it was that things hadn't time to crystallise properly

after the break," she went on, twisting a button between her finger

and thumb. "I hope the War Office will be merciful and allow us a

good spell this time. Separations are rather uncanny things. You

never quite know----"

"Well, if you don't know me when I get back this evening," he said,

with perfect gravity, "the marriage that has been arranged, etc., had

better not take place."

"Mark!" Her voice had a sharp, startled note.

"That'll learn you!" he retorted, smiling. "We'll make out our

'para' to-morrow."

And he heard no more of the subject.

They found Lady Forsyth alone in the drawing-room reading her midday

post.

"My dears!" She sprang up to greet them. "We've been wondering what

had come to you."

Mark explained, asked a few questions, backed casually towards the

door--and vanished, leaving the women alone.

Bel had resolved that there should be neither awkwardness nor

hesitation. Already she had rehearsed the little scene half a dozen

times; and as the door closed, she turned to the small, upright

figure near the piano, both hands flung out.

"Dear Lady Forsyth, you _are_ going to forgive me, aren't you? I

know I don't deserve it. But Mark has been so beautifully

generous----"

"That is easier for him than for his mother," Lady Forsyth rejoined

with her disconcerting frankness: but her smile made partial

atonement and she took the proffered hands. "Not that I'm belittling

Mark's generosity. It takes a just man to be generous even in

exasperating circumstances; and Mark possesses that rare quality in a

high degree. He particularly wants us all to make light of the whole

matter; and--to please him, Bel, I can at least condone what I can't

pretend to understand."

This--as may be supposed--was not precisely the due Bel had prepared

for herself. But she had the adaptability of the born actress; and

she recognised that Lady Forsyth had paid her the embarrassing

compliment of speaking her mind as to a daughter.

"That's rather a crushing form of forgiveness!" she said, with the

pretty droop of her lips. "And I don't suppose it's much use trying

to explain...."

"Not the slightest, my dear." Lady Forsyth's tone was brisk but

kindly. "Facts, like beauty, are best left unadorned. I take it for

granted you must have been very much upset to hurt a brave man so

unnecessarily. Had your refusal been final, I could have better

understood."

The girl flinched at that and bit her lip. "You don't sound much

like forgiving me. And I don't think," she made bold to add, "that

Mark would be quite pleased if he heard you."

"He would probably bite my head off," Lady Forsyth answered, taking

the wind out of her sails. "And if you want to make him angry with

me, you can tell him what I have said. I should say just the same if

he were present. Mark and I are in complete accord, however much we

squabble. He knows my bark is worse than my bite: and you'll soon

know it too, Bel. So don't let's write in brass what is meant to be

writ in water. We shall gain nothing by making Mark our apple of

discord. He's a very large apple, big enough for two! Now, after

that, let me 'behave' and show you to your room. Later on, you must

see over the dear old house."

"Yes. It's a dream of a place." Bel swerved thankfully to a more

congenial subject and the still more congenial reflection that all

this stately, soft-toned beauty would some day be her own.

Once this wretched war was over, everything would go swimmingly. He

would settle down and shed some of his troublesome ideals. That flat

in town--which she had already chosen and furnished mentally--would

be the best possible antidote for what she vaguely styled "that sort

of thing." She washed her hands and tidied her smooth hair in a

frame of mind too serene even to be clouded by the prospect of a

whole afternoon without Mark.

And downstairs, alone in the drawing-room, Lady Forsyth was playing

Grieg's Temple Dance with a fire and fury that brought Keith in from

the terrace, startled concern in his eyes.

"Bless my soul, Helen! Who are you wanting to murder now? The Crown

Prince or one of our own super-Solomons?"

"Neither," she answered, crashing out the last double chord. Then,

swinging round on the stool she faced him with heightened colour,

head in air. "It's Mark's future wife. And I'm in terror that he'll

want to marry before he goes out. Keith--it's not only wicked

prejudice. I distrust her more than ever. She came to me with a

pretty, ready-made apology which I am afraid I dislocated by my

incurable candour. Then, having let fly for my own satisfaction, I

proceeded to smooth things over for love of Mark. Told her my bark

was worse than my bite."

"That I can swear to," Keith struck in smiling.

"Still--by every oath I mustn't use, if I was a natural savage

instead of a Christian woman, who adores her son, I'd _bite_ her with

all my teeth--There! Between that and Grieg, I feel a little better.

But, oh, you sagacious bachelor, you have your divine compensations.

At times it's a positive curse to love any human thing better than

your own soul."

"It is that," Macnair agreed with quiet emphasis, as the door opened

to admit Mark himself.

The air seemed still to vibrate with Helen's impassioned outburst,

and he glanced quickly from one to the other.

"What have you two been plotting--eh?"

"The wholesale reconstruction of the universe!" Keith answered

lightly; but Mark went straight to his mother and laid his hand on

her.

"She's been working herself up about nothing," he said. "I can feel

her quivering all through. Keith, you oughtn't to encourage her.

She'll be needing all her reserves of strength, if she's to pull

through this. Would the drive to Bramleigh calm you down,

Motherling? Or would it churn you up again, hearing me speak?"

"No: I should love it," she answered in a low voice. The invitation

and the touch of his hand had soothed her already, as nothing else

could have done. It was as if, by some telepathic process, he had

divined the cause of her emotional stress; and when the two girls

came in he said casually, without removing his hand: "I'm carrying

Mums off with me to Bramleigh. You've had your drive, Bel, and the

outing will do her a power of good."

The announcement faintly ruffled Bel's conviction that all was for

the best in this best of all possible worlds. But later in the

evening, when her own turn came, when she wandered with Mark through

the terraced gardens down to the river, he found her apparently

satisfied, if not communicative, as regards her interview of the

morning. Convinced of her own supreme sovereignty, instinct told her

that she would gain nothing by "giving the woman away."

CHAPTER III

"I am the Fact," said War, "and I stand astride the path of Life....

There can be nothing else and nothing more in human life until you

have reckoned with me."--H. G. WELLS.

That same evening, a good deal later on, Lady Forsyth sat at her

dressing-table, brushing out her hair, recalling, with pride, Mark's

vivid speech, the cheers, the record "bag" of recruits, and wondering

if he would forget to come for his usual good night.

His room opened out of hers; and the door between stood chronically

ajar--a companionable habit begun in her first days of loneliness

after his father's death. He rarely missed the little ceremony of

early tea, when he would establish himself at the foot of the bed and

argue or read aloud, or simply "rag" her, as the spirit moved him.

Then he would wander in and out, in the later stages of dressing,

hindering and delighting her in about equal measure. Or they would

carry on a violent argument through the open door, a pair of

disembodied voices, till some climax would bring one or other

gesticulating to the threshold. These morning and evening hours were

the times of their most formidable encounters, their wildest

nonsense, their utmost joy in each other's society, exhibited in a

manner peculiar to themselves. At night the "hair-brush interview"

had become a regular institution. It might be over in ten minutes or

last till midnight, according to their mood. This was the time for

graver matters, for the give and take of advice; and although there

might be little outward show of sentiment, those hours of comradeship

were among the most sacred treasures of the mother's heart.

To-night she brushed till her arm ached, listening for his footstep;

and the moment she put the hated thing down, he came, bringing with

him the whiff of cigarette smoke she loved.

Standing behind her, he took her head between his hands, lightly

passing his fingers through her hair and smiled at her in the glass.

She was responsive as a cat when her hair was caressed; and he knew

it.

"Poor deserted little Mums!" he said. "Had you given me up in

despair?"

"Absolutely."

"And how long would you have hung on past despair point?" he asked

with a twinkle.

"Probably half an hour.... What have you done with your lady-love?"

"Ordered her to bed."

"So early? All for my benefit? I scent an ulterior motive."

He laughed and pulled her hair. "Your instinct's infallible! It's

this marrying business. I know I promised to wait; but the whole

face of the world has changed since then."

He detected the faint compression of her lips.

"Mums, you're incorrigible. She's a delicious thing."

"Who says otherwise?"

"You do--internally! Not a mite of use throwing dust in my eyes.

When you're converted--as you will be--I shall know it, to the tick

of a minute. Meantime"--he moved over to the window and stood there

facing her--"the question is, in a war like this, oughtn't one to

marry, if possible, before going out? She got on to war weddings

this evening, and I was tongue-tied. That mustn't happen again.

What's your notion? D'you still think--wait?"

A pause. She dreaded, as he did, the possibility of Wynchcombe

Friars passing into the hands of Everard Forsyth and his son, whose

views were not their views, except in matters political. Had the

wife in question been Sheila, her answer would have been

unhesitating. As it was, she parried his awkward question with

another.

"What do you think yourself, Mark?"

He laughed.

"Oh, you clever woman! I have my answer. And in this case I believe

you're right. Personally, I'm game to marry her at once. But ...

there are other considerations. Seems her precious Harry's been

rubbing into her that these war marriages aren't fair on women--that

it's a bigger shadow on their lives losing a husband than a lover.

It's a tragic sort of start, I admit; and once we're married the

wrench of separation would surely be harder for both. Then, as

regards myself, you know how this coming struggle has obsessed my

mind; how we've doubted, both of us, the spirit of modern

England--the selfish, commercial spirit of the red-necktie brand.

And now that I see the old country shaming our doubts, I simply want

to fling myself into this business--heart and brain and body. And,

frankly, I've a feeling I could give myself to things with a freer

mind ... as a bachelor. That's the truth--for your very private ear.

Thirdly and lastly, if we married, she ought to be here with you, and

I'm doubtful if you'd either of you relish that arrangement, lacking

me to do buffer state. See?"

"I do see, very clearly," she answered, regarding him with grave

tenderness, her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands.

"Thought you would. There's only one thing worries me. As my

wife--if the worst happened, she'd at least be well provided for.

Seems she has literally no money, and a very fair gift for spending

it."

Helen's quick brain--lightened by her relief--sprang to instant

decision. "You could settle that by adding a codicil to your will.

Those investments of father's that are not tied up with the place

would give her quite a comfortable income."

"Capital!" he cried, slapping his leg. "Fool I was not to think of

it. Simply forestall my instructions about her marriage settlement.

We'll fix it up at once and I'll talk things over with her to-morrow.

See how she feels about it herself."

They discussed details for another half-hour; then, in his peremptory

fashion, he ordered her to bed.

"God bless you," she whispered as he shed a kiss on her hair. "This

afternoon I was the proudest mother in England."

"O fool woman--just because I caught the gift of the gab! With

practice I might even degenerate into a politician. Just as well I'm

in for a few years of the silent service. Go to sleep quick, and

don't let yourself be bogey ridden by German devilments."

But though wisdom endorsed his command, she disobeyed it flatly.

There was no sleep in her brain; and instead of going to bed, she sat

down in the window-seat, leaned against the woodwork and looked out

upon the still serenity of garden, terrace, and pine wood, softly

illumined by an unclouded moon. The very peace and beauty of those

moonlit August nights had an uncanny power of intensifying the inner

visions that daylight and ceaseless occupation kept partially in

check. She could not now look upon the moon without seeing the

sacked villages, the human wreckage of battle that the same impartial

goddess illumined, over there, on the shell-battered fields of

Belgium and France.

Earlier in the day her spirit had been uplifted by Miss Sorabji's

beautiful letter "England in Earnest," by her exhortation, from the

Gita, "Think of this not as a war, but as a sacrifice of arms

demanded of the gods." But now, in the peace and silence of night,

it was the anguish of the flight from Tirlemont that lived before her

eyes and chilled her blood. Too vividly, she pictured the flaming

town; the rush of panic-stricken people; women and children, shot,

bayoneted, ruthlessly ridden down. And already there were whispers

of things infinitely worse than killing--things unnamable, at thought

of which imagination blenched----

From that great, confused mass of misery there emerged the pathetic

figure of one fugitive peasant woman and five children who stood

bewildered in the Place de la Gare, crying all of them as if their

hearts would break. That morning the German soldiery had killed the

woman's husband and trampled two of her children to death before her

face--a minor item in an orgy of horrors. But it is poignant

personal detail that pierces the heart: and the acute realisation of

one mother's anguish brought sudden tears to Helen's eyes.

So blurred was the moonlit garden, when she looked down into it, that

a shadow moving at the end of the terrace set her heart fluttering in

her throat.

Spy hunting and spy mania were in the air. Almost every day brought

its crop of tales, credible and incredible: horses poisoned wholesale

at Aldershot, mysterious gun-emplacements, hidden arms and ammunition

in the least expected places. Even allowing for exaggeration, such

rumours were sufficiently disturbing. They gave a creepy, yet rather

thrilling sense of insecurity to things as perennially and unshakably

secure as the Bank of England or Westminster Abbey. Nor could even

these symbols of stability be reckoned immune, with the financial

world in convulsions and a mysterious fleet of Zeppelins threatening

to bombard London!

In the over-civilised and over-legislated world, that came by a

violent end in July, 1914, the uncertainty of life had been little

more than a pious phrase, spasmodically justified by events. Now it

was an impious fact, vaguely or acutely felt almost every hour of the

day--by none more acutely than by Helen Forsyth with her quick

sensibilities and vivid brain. Even Mark admitted that she was

keeping her head creditably on the whole; but in certain moods she

was quite capable of demanding a drastic search for gun-emplacements

in her own grounds or suspecting a secret store of ammunition among

the ruins of Wynchcombe Abbey, all on the strength of a semi-German

gardener dismissed years ago. Only last week a suspicious,

Teutonic-looking individual had come to the back door and put the

cook "all in a tremor" by asking superfluous questions about the

neighbourhood. And now this mysterious wanderer in the garden--at

such an hour----!

She was on her feet, brushing aside the tears that obscured her

vision. But the shadow had vanished behind a bush and did not seem

disposed to reappear. For a second she stood hesitating. If she

called Mark, he would either laugh at her or scold her for not being

in bed. The creature was probably harmless. She would creep

down-stairs quietly and explore. For all her nerves and fanciful

fears, she was no coward in the grain. Hastily twisting up her hair,

she slipped on a long opera coat and crept noiselessly down into the

drawing-room. There she found that the French window leading on to

the terrace had been left unlocked.

"How careless of Mark!" she murmured; and, with fluttering pulse,

stepped out into the moonlight.

There he was again! Summoning all her courage she went forward,

uncertain even now what she meant to say.

The shadowy figure had turned. It was coming towards her.

Then--with a start of recognition she stopped dead.

"Keith!" she exclaimed softly, and could have laughed aloud in her

relief.

"Helen--what are you doing out here?" he asked, an odd thrill in his

low voice.

"What are you doing?" she retorted. "Frightening me out of my life!

I saw a suspicious-looking shadow; and--don't laugh at me--I thought

it might be a spy."

"And you came down to tackle him alone! Just like you! Supposing it

had been?"

"Oh--thank goodness it's not! But don't you ever give me away."

Helen's laugh ended in an involuntary shiver.

"Cold?" he asked quickly.

"No--no! Let's walk a little and feel normal."

He moved on beside her, anxious, yet deeply content. Then: "Helen,"

he said suddenly. "If you're going to let things get on your nerves

like this, you'll be done for. Your best chance is to take up some

absorbing war-work; the harder the better."

"What work? And where?"

He caught a note of desperation in her tone. "Scrubbing hospital

floors? Or playing about with Belgians and invalids here, while

Sheila is at Boulogne, you scouring France in our car, and Mark in

the thick of it all? He wants me to stay here, I know. But, Keith,

I simply _can't_. What else, though, can a useless woman of fifty

do?"

"To start with, she can refrain from calling herself useless, which

is a libel! To go on with--" He paused, regarding her. The

supposed spy was meditating a bold suggestion. "Helen--could you ...

would you ... come out with me as my orderly? If so, I could confine

my activities to the Base. I verily believe you'd find the real

thing less nerve-racking than the nightmares of an imagination like

yours. But, could you stand it, physically? And ... would the

conventions permit?"

Her low laugh answered him straight away. "My dear Keith, talk of

inspiration! It would just save my soul alive. I can act infinitely

better than I can endure. I should feel nearer to Mark. And as for

the conventions, I hanged them all years ago. What harm, if the poor

dead things are drawn and quartered?" She checked herself and looked

up at him. "Will you take your Bible oath that I shouldn't simply be

in the way?"

"I'll take it on as many Bibles as you like to produce," he answered,

with becoming gravity. "But I'm thinking ... for your sake ...

another woman.... How about Sheila?"

"Sheila! Lovely."

"Would she give up her precious massage?"

"If I wanted her she'd give up anything. But--the massage wouldn't

bring her up against the worst horrors. Your work would. And she's

full young--barely three and twenty."

"She is that. Though, if I'm any good at observation, I should say

the stature of her spirit is far in advance of her years. She gives

me the impression of great reserve power, that girl. She never seems

to put out her full strength, or to waste it in kicking against the

pricks."

"One for me!" Lady Forsyth murmured meekly.

"Yes, one for you! And I make bold to prophesy she would be worth

five of you in a painful emergency!"

He made that unflattering statement in a tone of such extraordinary

tenderness that she beamed as at a compliment.

"Let the righteous smite me friendly--when I deserve it! You seem to

have made a close study of my Sheila. It only remains to secure her

services and Mark's consent----"

"_Mother_!" His deep voice called suddenly from the window. "I'm

ashamed of you. Come to bed at once!"

"Coming!" she called back, adding under her breath: "Keith, remember

I only came down for a book. And you found me locking you out."

Then she hurried away, obedient always to the voice of her son.

Nightmares had been effectually dispelled.

Bel's hope that the War Office would be merciful was not fulfilled.

The Juggernaut across the Channel would not stand still at any one's

bidding. The Great Man who worked day and night, creating new

armies, had need of every promising semblance of an officer he could

lay hands on; and Mark's name was a recommendation in itself.

Bel was given little more than a week in which to be "heavenly good";

and it must be admitted that she made the most of it. She took

kindly, on the whole, to Mark's solution of the marriage problem.

How far her acquiescence was due to his exceeding thoughtfulness in

the matter of money it might be invidious to enquire. There remained

the fact that Harry O'Neill--scenting a possible war wedding--had

skilfully put forward her own pronounced views on the subject; while,

incidentally, spoiling her idol more egregiously than ever. And the

girl herself leaned towards a more auspicious beginning of her

married life. Mark found her oddly superstitious on the subject;

and, with her gift for evading unpleasant facts, she had risen

readily to the optimistic conviction that the war would be over by

Christmas or the New Year. Apparently it did not occur to her, or to

others of her persuasion, that a short war could only spell victory

for Germany. But there seemed little use in dispelling an illusion

that kept her happy; and, in her case, could do no harm.

So she clung unchallenged to her comforting belief; and, the great

question being settled, Mark was free to consider other matters.

First and foremost, there was Keith's amazing proposition to enlist

Mums--a project that did not square with Mark's private plan for

keeping her safely wrapped in cotton wool and harmless war-activities

at Wynchcombe Friars. Son-like, he had scarce realised how

infinitely dear she was to him, till her eagerness to cross the

Channel had driven him to consider the possibility in all its

bearings. And the inclusion of Sheila in the programme brought to

light his hidden tenderness for her that seemed in no way diminished

by his passion for Bel. Why the deuce couldn't the women be

reasonable, and stay in England where there would be work enough for

all? And what business had Keith to go encouraging them? But so

plainly were the three enamoured of their idea that in the end he had

not the heart to damp them.

In the privacy of his thoughts, he thanked goodness that Bel could be

trusted not to emulate them; though her attitude towards the war was

now less hostile than it had been. The very air she breathed was

impregnated with war-fever, war-talk and war-realities. It was

increasingly evident that new war-activities were going to become the

fashion; and she was of those who unquestioningly follow a fashion,

lead it where it may. Having no taste for the menial work of

hospitals or for tending the sick and wounded, she had elected to

help in some sort of women's work engineered by Harry, "the Cause"

being temporarily extinct. So far as possible she turned away her

eyes from beholding and her heart from feeling the full measure of

the invisible horror, which, to more imaginative minds, became too

acutely visible and audible during that critical last week of August,

1914.

For by now, across the Channel, the Great Retreat had begun. Days

that, at Wynchcombe Friars, slipped by all too fast, seemed over

there, to have neither beginning nor end. Common standards of time

were lost in that ceaseless, sleepless nightmare of dogged marching

and still more dogged fighting, whenever Prussian hordes gave the

broken remnant of an army a chance to turn and smite, as the British

soldier can smite even in retreat.

It was from Le Cateau that an officer friend sent a pencil scrawl to

Mark.

"It is quite evident that we have taken the knock badly. With any

other army one would say we're beaten. But Tommy doesn't understand

the word. You can only beat him by knocking the life out of him.

And even when you think he's dead, chances are he'll get up and kick

you. People at home simply haven't begun to know what heroes these

chaps are. Makes me sick even to think of certain supercilious folk,

I seem to remember, who thought the worst of any man in uniform on

principle. Great Scott, they're not fit to lick Tommy's boots."

Mark handed that letter to Bel.

"There's one in the eye for your precious Maitland," he remarked

coolly. "Copy it out verbatim, please, and send it to him with my

compliments!"

And Bel obeyed with exemplary meekness. She had rather objected to

the tone of Maitland's last letter; and, in her own fashion, she was

very much impressed. Heroism, a long way off and entirely

unconnected with one's self, was an admirable thing in man.

It was near the end of August, when the Channel ports were being

evacuated and the fall of Paris seemed merely a matter of days, that

Mark at last found his name in the _Gazette_ coupled with that of a

distinguished Highland regiment; and in record time he was

ready--uniform, equipment, parting presents and all.

Like most of his race and kind, he would have preferred an informal

departure--casual "good-byes," as though he were going off on

business for a week or so. But he had won the hearts of his people

by justice, understanding, and the personal touch that was a

tradition at Wynchcombe Friars: he had inspired them, by precept and

exhortation, to give of their best ungrudgingly; and he could not

deny them the legitimate thrill of speeding his departure with

congratulations and cheers.

Only on Sunday, his last day, he evaded one ordeal by limiting his

attendance at church to early service with his mother. Bel had

little taste for early rising, and Mark did not press the point.

In the afternoon he delighted his humbler friends--wives of the

gamekeeper, the coachman and the manager of his arts and crafts

colony--by calling on them in full uniform. Though he occasionally

wore the kilt and glengarry at Inveraig, his Hampshire folk had never

seen him thus attired; and their open admiration was so embarrassing

that, after several hours of it, he returned limp and exhausted,

clamouring for whisky and soda and the society of Bel, who could

always be trusted to keep her admiration within bounds.

To her he devoted the evening; and early on Monday the more personal

farewells must be said, the cheerful, casual note vigorously

maintained. It was not "the real thing" yet; and the women, in their

hearts, prayed that the "the real thing" might be deferred for many

months to come. Meantime, unless England was favoured with an

invasion, he would be safe enough on the south-east coast of

Scotland; and later on, if rooms were available, he would permit his

mother and Bel to intrude upon his violent industry for a week.

Keith drove them all to the station, and behold, outside the grey

stone gateway, an impromptu guard of honour lined the road to

Wendover: villagers and farm hands, weavers and metal-workers, women,

children, and ineligible men. At sight of the motor, they broke into

shouts and ragged cheers that would have moved a heart many degrees

less responsive than the heart of Mark Forsyth.

"Drive slower, man," he said to Keith; and, standing up in the car,

he waved his glengarry--giving them shout for shout--till he could no

more.

That vision of him, so standing, with the morning light in his eyes,

the sun upon his chestnut-red hair and his kilt blown back by the

wind, remained stamped indelibly upon his mother's brain.

CHAPTER IV

"Hearts that are as one high heart,

Withholding nought from doom or bale,

Burningly offered up--to bleed,

To bear, to break, but not to fail."

LAURENCE BINYON.

The dream of that coveted week at Mark's war station materialised

about the middle of September. More: it was a success; a blessed

memory unspoiled by any jarring note, and it brought the two women

nearer to each other than they had been yet.

They found Mark, in charge of a double company chiefly armed with

broom-sticks, handling his Highlanders to some purpose; giving his

spare hours to revolver practice, with plump German targets in view.

His Colonel, who lost no time in making friends with Lady Forsyth,

spoke of him in glowing terms, and gave his women folk every facility

for seeing the coast defences prepared against the promised invasion.

They wandered, shivering inwardly, through a maze of genuine

trenches, heavily sandbagged, that, in the event of a landing, were

to be held "at all costs." They inspected cunning entanglements of

barbed wire on the beach and underground forts that looked more like

heat bumps on the face of the earth than strong defensive positions;

and they heard amazing stories of spies, though the Government had

nominally demolished the system. They had tea with half a dozen

jilted officers, on a bare deal table, in an upper room of a house

that had been shorn of its furniture to accommodate Mark, with two

fellow subalterns and three hundred men.

Everything conspired to make those few September days an untarnished

memory. The tide of retreat had turned. The miracle had happened

and the Germans, flung back from the gates of Paris, had been

brilliantly defeated on the Marne. India's response to the call of

her King-Emperor had sent a thrill through the whole kingdom: and

some impeccable authority--name unknown--reported hundreds of

Russians at Ostend. Hopeful souls dreamed again of a swift and

decisive issue. But the Great Brain piling up armies in Whitehall

still pinned his faith on England's "last million men."

In fact, there was only one flaw in the week of their content; it

passed too soon. Then the price must be paid in the renewed wrench

of parting; and for the first time Lady Forsyth saw tears in Bel's

eyes.

Of course they must come again, Mark assured them at the last. "The

C.O. has fallen in love with Mums! He'd be heartbroken if I didn't

give him another chance. And he's a useful chap to please. So that

settles it!"

But towards the end of September, before there was time even to think

of another chance, Mark had his orders. A decimated battalion was

clamouring for reinforcements; and a message flashed to Wynchcombe

Friars that he would be home next day on forty-eight hours leave,

picking up Bel in town.

That blunt announcement drove the blood from Lady Forsyth's face.

Sheila was back with her again; and Keith had just returned from a

week's absence on business connected with the Forsyth-Macnair Car.

"He's got his wish," was all she said: and went quickly out of the

room.

Next morning they arrived--the two of them; Mark rather defiantly

cheerful, Bel more than a little subdued. Lady Forsyth had never

liked the girl better than in those two days.

To the women it seemed hard that so many of his precious hours at

home must be squandered on business. But Mark had to face the fact

that he might never return; and to make his dispositions accordingly.

It had always been his wish to emulate his father and be practically

his own land-agent. But four years of minority and the long absence

in Europe had obliged him to employ a trustworthy man of experience:

and he was thankful for it now. George Russell, happily well over

forty, had proved as capable as he was devoted: which is saying a

good deal for his capacity. He possessed, moreover, a shrewder

business head than either mother or son: and, on occasion, to Mark's

huge delight, he would assume a tenderly protective attitude, as of

one whose mission in life was to save them from themselves.

In the matter of Belgian refugees, for instance, he regretted to

report that Lady Forsyth was not sufficiently discriminating. They

were proving, as was natural, "a very mixed lot," and Russell had a

positive flair for the wrong sort. It was not fair on Sir Mark to

crowd up his cottages with "foreign riff-raff": the deserving would

make a quite sufficient drain on his limited resources. The good

fellow learnt with unconcealed relief that Lady Forsyth would soon be

going to Boulogne with Miss Melrose and that he would be left

practically in charge of everything. They had decided to lend the

house to Sir Richard's two sisters chiefly with a view to keeping it

available for hospitality to officers, wounded or otherwise. The

little colony of arts and crafts had dwindled considerably: but the

workshops were not to be altogether closed down. Lady Forsyth was

anxious to encourage refugee lace-makers, Belgian and French.

Mark himself was thankful for business details that relieved the

underlying strain. But he refused on this occasion to bid any

official "Good-byes." He had taken leave of his people when he

joined the army. This final wrench was his own most private and

personal affair as they would doubtless understand.

Tea on the terrace was a creditably cheerful meal; and it was not

till near dinner-time that Mark managed to slip away by himself for

an hour of quiet communing with the land he loved--the woods, the

river, and the lordly ruins that, for him, were written all over with

the inner history of his own brief twenty-seven years. Bel had asked

him more than once how he could bear to leave it all: and to-night,

as he saw the red sun tangled among his pine tops, that question so

shook his fortitude that he challenged it with another. Could he

bear to think of German troops defiling the fair and stately face of

it, terrorising with torture and outrage, the men and women whose

welfare was his main concern in life? Confronted with that

challenge, the coward question fled ashamed.

After dinner he had half an hour's talk with Sheila, into whose hands

he solemnly commended his more mercurial mother. "She's a jewel of

price," he added frankly, "but in certain moods, she takes some

managing. And on the whole you're better at it than old Keith.

Don't let her crock up from the strain of it all. And write to me.

Promise."

She promised--and his mind felt more at rest.

Later on he took Bel out on to the terrace, where they paced up and

down in the starlight, talking fitfully. Time was too short for all

they had to say: and for that very reason they could not say one half

of it. Interludes of silence increased. At last came one so

prolonged that, by a mutual impulse, they came to a standstill, near

a low stone bench, confronting each other and the inexorable fact.

"Oh Mark--to-morrow!" Bel breathed unsteadily, her dim face close to

his. "It seems impossible."

For answer he took hold of her: and sitting down, gathered her on to

his knees. Then, amazed, he heard her whisper at his ear:

"Darling--I'm horribly afraid. I keep feeling--I shall never get you

back."

It was spoken at last, the fear of perpetual parting that knocked at

both their hearts. But the man knew that spectre must be ignored.

"I'll come back with any luck, my Bel," he said, kissing her, "to

claim you for good, and worry your life out! I vote we marry the

first leave I get."

He passed his hand slowly down her bare arm. "Darling, you're cold,"

he said. "There's a dew and a half falling. Come in at once. Are

we downhearted?--No!"

The light of the hall showed her on the verge of tears. But she

pulled herself together and he dismissed her with a blessing that

meant more to him than to her.

In the drawing-room he found Keith alone, with a solitary electric

light switched on, smoking by the open window; a privilege Helen

permitted him for the sake of his company.

"Hullo! Gone--both of 'em?" Mark asked in surprise.

"Yes. I ordered them off. They looked strained and tired. Couldn't

read. Couldn't talk. Your mother has some letters to write, I

think. She left word--would you look in?"

"Bless her, she takes things beastly hard."

"She does," Keith assented briefly: and Mark proceeded to fill his

pipe.

During the process Keith watched him, appraising his straight, clean

manhood and cursing the devilish nature of modern war.

Presently, when Mark had finished with his pipe, he spoke.

"Keith, old chap, on the strength of peculiar circumstances and the

general uncertainty of things, I'm going to make an infernally

impertinent remark. To begin with, Mother's most distractingly on my

mind. I've fixed up most things, with a view to--possible

contingencies. But I don't seem able to fix up her. If I'm knocked

out she's simply done for. Not even this precious work of hers for

consolation. It all goes to Uncle Everard who'll make an end of our

colony straight away. She'll lose everything at a stroke, except

Inveraig. And she--alone there----!"

He set his teeth; and Keith passed a long thin hand across his eyes.

"That's the tragedy of it," he said; adding, with forced lightness,

"Where does the impertinence come in?"

"It's jolly well coming in now. Don't bite my head off. Truth is

I'm not stone-blind; and just lately--I've been wondering ... why the

deuce don't you make a match of it? You and Mums!"

Macnair started, and his face looked rather a queer colour in the dim

light.

"Great heavens, Mark! Talk of explosives!"

For the moment he could get no further; and Mark was puzzled. "You

mean--it's never occurred to you?"

"I mean nothing of the sort."

"Then I bet you _do_ want to bite my head off----"

"I'm not ... so sure," he said slowly. His voice was more natural

now. "I always like your sledge-hammer directness. At the same

time--" He rose and paced the length of the room revolving that

amazing proposition.

"If I thought there was a ghost of a chance," Mark persisted, as

Keith turned in his stride, "it would take a ton weight off my mind."

"Not to mention mine," Keith answered smiling; and when he reached

the window he put a hand on Mark's shoulder. "As it seems a case of

plain speaking to-night, I may as well admit the truth. She's been

the star of my life for fifteen years--and I'd give all I possess to

marry her."

Mark's eyebrows went up.

"And she ten years a widow! Why not have a shot at it, old chap, and

make this Boulogne trip a sort of war honeymoon----"

"My dear boy! The pace you young fellows travel! And you ignore ...

there's Helen herself to be reckoned with----"

For the first time in his life Mark saw the blood mount into Keith's

face and heard him hesitate over his mother's name;--phenomena that

checked his fluency a little but rather increased his zeal.

"Well, if you don't have a try," he said, "hanged if the C.O. won't

forestall you. He's dead smitten. Two lovers at fifty--she ought to

be ashamed of herself!"

But Keith seemed no way perturbed by the possibility of a rival.

"_If_ she ever marries again," he said quietly, "it will be myself.

But, Mark, is it possible you've never realised that, for her, your

father is still as much alive as when he walked this earth. There's

a modest percentage of human beings so made, and a good few of them

are Scots. For them there is actually neither death, nor separation.

I believe your father still bars my way, as much as he did when--I

first loved her. Of course ... I may exaggerate!"

"Hope you do!" Mark was deeply moved. "She doesn't often speak of

him to me."

"Nor to me. But--when she does, it's quite clear."

"'M. Rough luck! All the same, if the worst happens, give me your

word you'll have a try ... for her sake and mine as well as your own.

No one would dream there's eight years between you."

Keith simply held out his hand and Mark's closed on it hard. The

good understanding that had always existed between them was complete.

Mark found his mother writing letters in bed. He had accused her

more than once of writing them in her bath. She looked strained and

tired, as Keith said; but in her blue dressing-jacket with hair

demurely parted and a thick plait over her shoulder, she appeared

younger, if anything, than the man he had left downstairs.

"Incurable woman!" he said lightly. "Who's your victim this time?"

She told him; and while she read out snatches of her letter,

Mark--watching her with new eyes--wondered, had she the least

inkling? Would a word from him be of any service to Keith?

Curiosity impelled him to talk of the Boulogne trip, to enlarge on

his confidence in Keith, and even to touch on the unconventional

character of the whole plan. Neither in look nor tone could he

detect a glimmer of after-thought or shadow of self-consciousness.

The causes of her satisfaction were clear as daylight: longing to be

in the same country as himself: candid pleasure in Keith's and

Sheila's company and her innate love of getting off the beaten track.

"It's just one of the many beautiful things that a genuine,

understanding friendship makes possible," she concluded, stamping and

sealing her letter: and Mark began to feel rather sorry for Keith.

But he wisely refrained from any hint of his own knowledge. It would

probably do no good and would certainly spoil her pleasure in going.

Instead, he commandeered her writing board, an act of tyranny that

would normally have involved a fight. Her unnatural meekness hurt

him more sharply than any words of love, could she have brought

herself to speak them. When he came back to the bed, she indicated a

little pile of Active Service Compendiums and a pocket Red-letter

Testament on the table beside her. She had already given him his

wrist watch and a silver flask.

"That _from_ me," she said touching the Book, "and those _for_ me. I

shall be hungry for news remember and out of touch with Bel, who will

get it all."

"Not quite all--faithless and unbelieving!" he answered echoing her

lightness, then he added with decision. "You're not coming up to

town, Mums; not even to the station--understand? It'll be bad enough

having Bel. But she's cooler all through. No matter how brave you

are, I can always feel you quivering inside. And I couldn't stand

it. Nor could you."

She shook her head. "It was only--a temptation. Not to miss----"

A spasm crossed her face and he went down on his knees beside her.

"Darling, if we are going to make fools of ourselves," he said

huskily. "I'd better be off. It's near midnight. Time you were

asleep." No answer; and he spoke still lower. "Give me your

blessing, Mums--like when I went to school."

Still without speaking she laid her hands on his bowed head; and from

his heart he echoed her passionate silent plea for his safe return.

Then he stood up and kissed her good night----

For sheer misery and discomfort nothing could exceed the actual hour

or two before departure. Bel could be with him in his room while he

"completed his mobilisation." The rest could only hang about

aimlessly, making futile talk or inventing futile occupations to keep

thought at bay. In the background, several maids and a grey-haired

butler hovered fitfully; and Bobs, a picture of abject misery, lay

awaiting his master at the foot of the stairs.

He came at last, in a violent hurry, shouting an order to Keith and

springing clean over the prostrate Bobs.

Bel followed more leisurely; flushed a little, but controlled. Then

the hovering servants came forward and Helen slipped quietly into her

husband's study.

There, at last, Mark came to her--followed closely by a tailless Bobs.

Somehow she contrived to smile. Then his arms were round her,

crushing her to him.

"God bless you," he whispered. "Don't fret. It's going to be all

right. And--if it isn't ... it'll _still_ be all right."

Then he kissed her again and let her go.

From the threshold he waved to her, smiling resolutely, though tears

stood in his eyes. She waved back to him. The door shut between

them. He was gone.

As she stood motionless, fighting back her grief, she was startled by

that sharp, familiar pang in the region of her heart: and a momentary

darkness as if a raven's wing had brushed across her eyes. She

shivered and kneeled hastily down to comfort the desolate Bobs, while

her tears fell, unchecked now, upon his rough brown head.

CHAPTER V

"Here is the hard paradox: war ... truly devilish, bestial, senseless

thing, produces in masses--as peace distinctly does not produce

them--brothers and sisters to Christ."--G. B. DAWAR.

Wynchcombe Friars without Mark was no place to tarry in; but there

seemed no end to the delays; and Keith turned even these to good

account by teaching Sheila to drive the Forsyth-Macnair car. Two

drivers with one orderly would get through twice the work.

It was near the middle of October when, at last, they found

themselves speeding towards Folkestone. Keith, who had laid aside

philosophy "for the duration of the war," delighted in his own small

ark of salvation as a Captain delights in his ship. From "stem to

stern" she was as perfect as skill and money could make her; fitted

up with four stretchers and bedding; crammed to the limit of her

capacity with first aid appliances and a minimum of luggage.

Here and there autumn had laid a fiery finger on the woods. Birches

and elms were tipped with gold. Otherwise the October sun riding in

a cloudless heaven suggested high summer. Mark had been gone nearly

two weeks. Two brief cheerful letters assured his mother he was

alive and well. Till she could see him again, those simple facts

were all that vitally concerned herself; though pessimists prophesied

invasion by Zeppelin and transport; and away over there--unseen, yet

acutely felt--Belgium continued her heroic stand against the

all-devouring, all-defiling German Army.

The fall of Antwerp, pronounced impregnable, had resounded through

Europe like the knell of doom. For a time, even the bravest were

shaken with dismay and the stream of refugees increased daily. The

streets of Folkestone overflowed with that pitiful flotsam of wrecked

cities. Some wept; some cursed; some prayed; but the prevailing

expression was a terrible stunned indifference, as though shock on

shock had hammered them into automata that could move and eat and

sleep, but could no longer feel.

In Boulogne--when they reached it--the flotsam of wrecked battalions

was more in evidence. Things were still primitive here as regards

organisation: but already the place was an English colony. The

British Red Cross Society was beginning to make things move and

owners of private cars were doing splendid service. To these were

now added the unrelated trio from Wynchcombe Friars. But their first

objective was Rouen, where a young Stuart nephew lay badly wounded,

craving for the sight of a face from home. His invalid mother could

not get to him; so Lady Forsyth went in her stead, only to find on

arrival that the boy had been dead an hour. For the sake of that

faraway mother she asked to see him, though privately she dreaded the

ordeal. She was aware, suddenly, of a very unheroic shrinking from

close contact with the awful actualities of war. But that shrinking

in no way affected her zeal for the work in hand.

News that a train-load of casualties was expected that evening sent

them full speed to the station; but it was dusk when they arrived to

find the process of unloading begun. At the entrance, a group of Red

Cross officials stood talking and laughing, hardened by habit to the

painful scene. As the car drew up they crowded round, admiring it

and questioning Macnair, while tragic burdens were being carried past

them in the half light.

Helen, too overwrought to make allowances, wondered how Keith had the

patience to answer them.

Presently, her attention was caught by a number of black shadows,

like wheelbarrows abnormally large and high.

"What are those?" she asked a porter, and discovered that they were

severely wounded men on wheeled stretchers either too brave or too

exhausted to utter a sound of complaint.

At that she could restrain herself no longer.

"Keith," she exclaimed, flagrantly interrupting a Medical Authority

with a passion for cars. "Why are those unfortunate men kept hanging

about in this noisy place? Can't we get four of them away?"

But Medical Authority checked her impatience in a tone of mild

reproof.

"Those fellows are all right where they are, Lady Forsyth," he said.

"They're not fit to be moved off their stretchers. So we're waiting

for the trams. If you like to back into the station, you may pick up

some milder cases who'll be glad of a lift."

They backed in accordingly and picked up two maimed men and a

remarkably cheerful subaltern with his left arm in a sling and a

bandage across one eye. As they passed out, Keith offered to return

for another load; and to Helen's disgust, the offer was politely

declined.

By the time they reached the field hospital--a collection of

marquees, fitted up with electric light--it was nearly ten o'clock.

"Quite early; but we don't seem to be _wanted_; so I suppose we must

go to bed," Helen remarked with doleful emphasis, as they re-settled

the car. "I don't know what you think about it, Keith. _I_ feel

distinctly snubbed. Four out of three hundred! What's that?"

"A beginning--and no bad one!" Keith answered placidly, filling his

pipe. "Fanshawe says if we report ourselves at Boulogne we shall get

all the work we want. There's heavy fighting on the north. A big

battle developing for Ypres and Calais."

To Boulogne they returned accordingly: and had no cause this time to

feel either snubbed or superfluous. There was still a famine of cars

at the Base and the wounded were arriving in thousands: their bodies

mangled and mutilated; their spirits, in the main, unquenched.

Macnair and his party drove up to their Hotel at noon: and their

greeting from the Red Cross Authority was very much to the point.

"All available cars wanted immediately at the Gare Maritime. Better

get some lunch first."

That lunch was of the briefest. Keith dumped their luggage in the

hall without so much as asking if there were rooms to be had. Helen

did not even open the coveted letter from Mark, till they were back

in the motor, speeding towards the bare unsheltered Gare, where

impromptu and comfortless hospital trains debouched their tragic

loads. Mercifully the sun of that miraculous autumn still shone

unclouded; and, by the time autumn gave place to the wettest winter

in decades, better arrangements had been made.

All that afternoon they worked, unceasingly, and late into the night.

Back and forth, back and forth between station and hospital; jolting

inevitably over railway lines, and a strip of merciless cobble

pavement that, for men with shattered limbs, hurriedly dressed,

involved several minutes of excruciating agony.

"Keith, couldn't they possibly take up that cruel bit of pave?" Helen

pleaded after their seventh journey with three men at death's door.

"Even a raw road would be better than those stones."

"I'll move heaven and earth to get it improved," he assured her,

little guessing that he had pledged himself to a labour of Hercules.

By the time they could take breath and think about finding beds, they

were all dead weary, sustained only by the knowledge that they had

given their mite of service to the utmost of their power. In Mark's

letter, which Helen had scarcely found time to read, there was a

sentence on this head that had haunted her brain throughout those

strenuous hours.

"Oh Mums, if only the good casual folk at home could be made to see

even the half of what we see in the way of wanton destruction, and

calculated brutality, wherever the gentle German has left his trail,

they'd possibly begin to realise the powers of evil we're up against

in this war and things in general would march to a different tune.

But they can't see. That's the trouble. And hearing about such

things isn't the same at all. If we're ever going to win through

hell to human conditions again it won't be merely by signing cheques

and making speeches, but by the individual personal service of every

man and woman in whatever capacity; and I'm proud to feel you three

are giving it like Trojans. God bless you all!"

She stood gleaning a few more scraps under an electric light, when

Keith came up to say he had secured a room for her and Sheila; and a

friendly Irish doctor had offered him a bed in his hospital train.

"I'm in great luck with my two assistants," he added smiling down at

her eager, tired face. "Sheila betters my expectation, which is

saying a good deal. Her self-possession to-day astonished me. She'd

have the nerve for advance ambulance work in the firing line, I do

believe. But I'm glad we've got her safe here."

He glanced towards her where she sat at a writing-table scribbling a

hurried letter to Mark in praise of their mutually beloved Mums.

Then he went up and touched her shoulder.

"Good night, Sheila," he said. "Get to bed sharp, both of you. I'll

call for you to-morrow."

"We'll be ready early," she answered looking up at him; and he

discovered, to his surprise, that her eyes were swimming in tears.

There was a certain monotony about the days of unremitting work that

followed; a monotony tinged with its own peculiar high lights and

shadows; with beauty and terror, fortitude and anguish, the incoming

and outgoing pulse-beat of life at the Base. Scarcely a day passed

without some minor incident, some flash of human revelation that

neither Keith nor his orderlies would forget while they lived.

For Helen--with every nerve responsive to the suffering around

them--the strain of it all proved no light matter; yet, in retrospect

she counted those terrible days as among the richest experiences of

her life.

To her it was distracting that wounded men should suffer additional

miseries from the fact that even in two and a half months of war it

had been impossible to cope with all the complex needs of the

situation. Hospitals were few and quite inadequate. The magnificent

ambulance trains of later days were still in the workshops at home;

while untiring men on the spot did the best they could with the high,

comfortless passenger coaches of France. Even the more luxurious

sleeping carriages were too cramped for the ingress and egress of

badly wounded men: and when, at last, these were landed, like so many

bales of goods, on the unsheltered platform of the Gare, shortage of

ambulance cars and trained stretcher-bearers added the finishing

touch to their nightmare journey. But soon after Keith's arrival the

zeal and organisation of the British Red Cross began to make

themselves felt, in this respect as in others. Every ambulance that

could be raised in London was rushed across to Boulogne; till in a

few days there were eighty of one kind or another plying between

train and hospital and ship.

For all that, there was still need of superhuman exertion to cope,

even inadequately with the terrible stream of wounded; the back wash

as it were, from the Homeric struggle round Ypres. In that region,

the Belgians were making their last desperate stand, and war-worn

British Divisions,--haggard, sleepless, cruelly depleted--were still

miraculously holding their own against Army Corps on Army Corps of

fresh German troops heartened by an overwhelming superiority in guns

and shells. There--during those awful days--whole battalions of the

finest troops on earth practically ceased to exist; and thence came

the main influx of comfortless, over-crowded trains.

Steadily the tale of wounded swelled, till it reached an average of

two thousand a day. And what were eighty cars among so many? Little

better than the five loaves and two small fishes in Galilee: and here

was no hope of miraculous intervention. The outstanding miracle of

that golden October--when England neither knew her peril nor the full

cost of her salvation--was the superhuman fortitude of those that

were broken on the wheel and the untiring energy of those who served

them in the teeth of baffling conditions.

Day after day the open platform was thronged with men on stretchers

in all stages of mental and bodily collapse; British, Indian, French,

Belgian, German--brothers all, for the moment, in suffering if in

nothing else. Some stared wildly and talked nonsense; some were

apathetic; some incurably cheerful; though often their wounds had not

been dressed for days.

The lack of trained stretcher-bearers was a serious difficulty till

St. John's Ambulance Society came to the rescue. Porters, willing

but unskilful, did what they could. Keith himself, and others like

him, helped to carry scores of men. From early morning till near

midnight the cars of rescue ran to and fro; but in spite of every

effort there were unavoidable delays. Men died there on the

stretchers, or in draughty cars, while red-tape regulations kept them

waiting outside hospitals and ships. And that cruel strip of pavé

remained unsmoothed, though Keith had pressed the point with

unauthorised persistence. And Helen cursed--so far as her ladyhood

permitted--every time they crossed it with patients in the last

extremity.

The unceasing rush of work left small leisure for nightmares or even

for anxiety; but the strain and pain of it was taxing her nerves to

breaking-point. Always, as they drew near the familiar crowded

station, there sprang the inevitable question: "Will it be Mark this

time?" But though the passing days brought many from his regiment,

Mark was not found among them.

As for Sheila, her sensitive spirit felt the test more acutely than

either of the elders, who kept watchful eyes on her, were allowed to

suspect. Only by clinging desperately to her childhood's code of

courage could she save herself, at times, from the ignominy of

collapse. It was sustaining, too, to feel that Keith trusted her,

that Helen relied on her; and Mark's occasional letters--full of a

brotherly tenderness that showed little in his speech--made it seem

possible to win through anything without flinching visibly. The fact

that she could face this inferno of pain and death and mental anguish

without a sense of bitterness or rebellion was more of an asset than

she knew. It was, in fact, the keystone of her character, the secret

of her spiritual poise. For to accept, actively to accept, spells

capacity to transcend; but that she had still to discover.

They had little time, any of them, for abstract or personal thought.

The war, and its pressing demands on them constituted their life.

Keith had secured a small private sitting-room, where they could

enjoy an occasional evening of quiet and rest. But as work was

seldom over till near eleven, such oases were rare indeed. At times

their heads felt stunned with the eternal rattling to and fro, their

hearts numbed by contact with the awful harvest of a modern

battlefield. But on the whole they loved their work, and would not

have been otherwhere for a kingdom.

They grew skilled in the art of talking the men's minds away from

their sufferings: and Sheila--"Mouse" though she was--showed so

notable a gift for this form of spiritual healing, that Lady Forsyth

finally christened her "Queen of the Poor Things." Some

mother-quality in her touch and tone seemed to go straight to their

hearts. Men who left the station groaning and clenching their teeth,

to keep the curses back, would surprisingly soon be conjured into

recounting their adventures, or better still, talking of wives and

children at home.

Keith himself confessed that he had never properly appreciated the

British Tommy till he carried him wounded; and Helen lost her heart a

dozen times over. More than once when they chanced upon men

shattered and bandaged past human recognition, she came very near

losing her head: but only once did she disgrace herself by fainting

outright.

On that occasion, Keith carried her straight back to their Hotel,

laid her on the sofa and stayed by her till she was sufficiently

recovered to feel very much ashamed of herself.

"Promise I won't do it again," she assured him as he stood leaning

over her.

"No, that you certainly won't," he said sternly. "If ever you do, I

shall pack you straight off home. To-night, for a punishment, you'll

go early to bed. Sheila will be quite safe with me."

Argument and rebellion were useless. Moreover, she was honestly

exhausted; and before ten o'clock she was sound asleep.

But even weariness could not break the habit of short rest; and by

one of the morning she was amazingly wide awake.

Some distant sound had roused her, and now it drew nearer:--footsteps

and voices; men cheering and singing of "La Gloire" and "La Mort."

Nearer still they came, tramping along the pavement, till they were

almost under her open window.

Then she was aware of a discordant note in that gallant chorus. One

voice, raised in terror and remonstrance, was trying to dominate

those other voices that were obviously shouting it down.

"J'ai peur! Mon Dieu, camarades, j'ai peur!"

The words reached her distinctly now. But the rest, unheeding, sang

louder than ever of "la mort" and "la gloire."

Possibly they were sorry for him. The coward is the unhappiest of

men. Yet he too being "enfant de la patrie" must go, even as others

went: and Helen Forsyth, hearing him go, found the tears streaming

down her face--not for the coercion of one reluctant citizen, but for

the unending horror and misery of it all: the fear and the anguish

and the calculated cruelty that were so infinitely worse than death.

Sheila, sleeping the profound sleep of healthily exhausted youth,

stirred not an eyelash even when the noise was at its height. But,

for Helen, that pitiful interlude had put an end to rest; had opened

the door to nightmare memories and her own most private fears.

Since the long letter from Mark, that had greeted her on arrival,

there had been one barren field postcard: and even that was ten days

old.

And away there, in the trenches, the struggle seemed to wax fiercer

every hour....

The blank parallelogram of her window gleamed pale grey before, in

spite of herself, she fell asleep.

CHAPTER VI

"They stand to be her sacrifice,

The sons this Mother flings like dice,

To face the odds and brave the Fates...."

GEORGE MEREDITH.

The strain of Mark's sudden silence told increasingly upon the three

of them. It was tacitly assumed that postal arrangements were

disorganised. Each hoped that the others believed in that consoling

fiction; but privately, they were sceptics all.

Helen continued to post his paper and her own thick envelope every

other day in the hope that he was still to be found somewhere in the

terrible maze of trenches that drew England's best and bravest as a

magnet draws steel.

Meantime, they were thankful for unremitting work; for the constant

movement and interest of life at the Base. Young officers, eager for

action, might be bored to extinction by a few weeks in camp or in one

of the crowded hotels; but an observer, blessed with humour and a

large love of human nature, could not fail to find at every turn food

for thought, for laughter and for tears.

War is neither all horror, nor all heroism, or it could not be waged

by flesh and blood. Soldiers who can die like gods, or fight as the

beasts that perish, are, in the intervals, men of like passions with

their kind. And genuine soldiers were scarce among those who now

poured into Boulogne, to fill the gaps in that dangerously thin line

round Ypres: Territorials and schoolmasters, clergymen and clerks,

lords of commerce and lords of the land; dissimilar in almost every

essential, yet welded together by one common resolve, one common

faith:--a crusade indeed!

And the manifold needs of a host undreamed of by the wildest,

wickedest "militarists," demanded the existence of that other army

chiefly congregated at the Base;--doctors, nurses, chaplains,

ambulance folk, owners of private cars, and those sorrowful birds of

passage--relations of dying or dangerously wounded men. On the

quays, in streets and hotels they thronged, those incongruous

fragments of the world's greatest drama; and Lady Forsyth never tired

of watching them or listening to their snatches of talk. Neither

weariness, nor nightmare visions, nor anxiety, even, could blunt the

edge of her keen interest in the human panorama.

"Oh, Sheila, my lamb," she exclaimed one evening after a day of very

varied emotions, "aren't people--all sorts and kinds of

them--passionately interesting? Even when I'm laid on the uttermost

shelf, I shall still be always peeping over the edge!"

"And you'll always find me peeping up at you!" the girl answered,

smiling at the quaint conceit. "It's simply wonderful, being with

you--through all this!"

A temporary lull in the stream of wounded was followed, too soon, by

a renewed rush of hospital trains filled to overflowing; the harvest

of a fresh German onslaught. But by this time there were more cars

and more stretcher-bearers. Ambulance trains, splendidly equipped,

were being hurried out from England; and the customs sheds at the

station had become a great shelter, roughly partitioned into

dressing-stations for those who had need of immediate care. From

this seed of voluntary effort there sprung up, in time, a big

stationary hospital, but by then the Forsyth-Macnair car was needed

elsewhere.

Meantime, in every effort to minimise the sufferings of the men he

served, Keith was actively to the fore. He even talked of running a

second car. Helen herself was amazed at his energy and

versatility--he whom she had hitherto regarded as a man wedded

entirely to books and thought. But among all the surprises of a war

rich in surprise, good and evil, were none more remarkable than such

unlooked-for revelations of human capacity and character.